Where are all the women?

Loud music blares from the dark bars and seedy clubs. The men order beers and watch sports replays on the giant screens that form the moving mural on the wall. Yes they shout, fists punching high in the air, every time things go their way.

In restaurants they dine together, grunting and shoveling rich offal and greasy chips into their mouths. They smoke when they want and swear like troopers, they click their fingers and instead of petite dollies balancing heavy trays overhead they are met by surly boys and bouncers doubling as waiters.

"We run out of onions, I'll see what chef can do."

Window displays in boutiques remain without an audience. Elegant mannequins all dressed up with nowhere to go stand forlorn in their ridiculous poses, where are my girls they seemed to say, who will buy? Who will admire me now?

The fanciful clickety-click of never-ending high heels is absent in these streets, so too the high-pitched giggle and scented clouds that normally accompany the female of the species.

A town bereft of women, gone, all of them, what a desolate place this has become.

Testosterone is fueling the atmosphere, fighting and grabbing to take its place in this new world where harmless words such as 'petticoat' and 'perfume' are banished.

But look, over there, can it be? Yes, it's an old woman, homeless, her hair is matted and personal grooming a thing of the past, she stinks of urine and cheap whisky, her clothes are torn and the gutter is her home. There she sits so still on the pavement staring up at the bright lights of the shop, Dixons it is, she won't leave, she’s entranced her attention drawn to the windscreen television on display in the window, she is fascinated, unable to break away.

Where are all the women? Follow her gaze and you have your answer. They are indoors, huddled together, complete and at peace, sipping champagne and sharing gourmet morsels and sweet delights, for tonight is the final episode of Sex and the City.